


Bedroom in Arles

by temporal-infidelity (Alvitr)



Series: Still Life [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Basically a bit of a bummer, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Depression, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Instability, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 15:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12610236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alvitr/pseuds/temporal-infidelity
Summary: January 1996.All at once, his dreams shrivelled into the wretched, crookedly borne things they were. This was the problem with this game, why it was so bad for him. It was cruel, that’s what it was. Cruel because it was all impossible.





	Bedroom in Arles

 

_ _

_ Bedroom in Arles _ _ _ , Vincent Van Gogh (1888)

 

_ January 1996 _

 

It was still quite early when Severus woke the first time, his body programmed, as the Muggles put it, to rise at the same early hour every day after nearly a decade and a half of teaching. He was unbearably exhausted though. Yesterday had included a long audience with the Dark Lord, followed by an impromptu meeting of the Order, then thirty minutes restless pacing in Grimmauld Place’s back garden, and at last, a wonderful half hour in bed with Kingsley -- which had not exactly been restful, but welcome all the same. Then sleep, but only two hours of it. His mind felt wide awake, but his body was screaming for more rest.

 

His restless, sluggish movements woke Kingsley too. “Severus?” he murmured, his voice slurred with sleep.

 

“Sorry,” he whispered, trying to force himself out of bed. If he was awake, he was awake; classes were not yet in session, but he still had many things to do -- many things … and if he felt as though he might collapse at any moment, well, that was what Pepper Up potion and coffee were for.

 

Painfully, he began to ease himself up on the bed, but was halted halfway through by a hand on his torso. “Don’t,” Kingsley said softly.

 

He looked over at his … friend? Ally? Lover? How could he even describe the complicated relationship between them? “I should go,” he said.

 

“Don’t,” Kingsley said again, and pushed him forcefully back onto the bed. Now that he was horizontal again, Severus found the effort involved in forcing himself back up even more daunting. “Stay. You need rest. Also, there’s nothing for you to do, is there?”

 

“There’s always something to do,” he muttered, but then Kingsley’s arm slid up his chest, skating over his neck, and cupped the side of his face. He pulled Severus towards him, pressing him against his chest, and placed a kiss on the crown of his head.

 

“Sleep,” he said, and Severus wondered fleetingly if he wasn’t somehow using  _ Imperius _ on him, because his mind, which had been so achingly wide awake a moment again, suddenly relented to his exhaustion and he found sleep swallowing him up again with alarming speed.

 

“All right,” he managed to whisper, before succumbing once more to the comfort of the bed and Kingsley’s arms.

 

\---

 

The next time he woke it was very late, judging by the degree of sunlight filling Kingsley’s flat. Lying curled up under the duvet in the empty bed, he lay very still, eyes open only a sliver, and took in all the unusual sensations. Kingsley’s bed was soft, much softer than his own. There must be a tree outside, because the shadows of bare branches were cast over the ceiling, undulating gently in the winter wind. The delicious smells of breakfast had permeated the entire flat. He closed his eyes and smiled, and tried to press the entire moment into his memory as fully as possibly.

 

The door to the bedroom opened and there were footsteps, recognizably Kingsley’s particular gait, heading towards the bed. Something was placed on the nightstand, near his head.

 

“Are you awake?” Kingsley’s voice was soft and a little rough still.

 

Severus nodded and opened his eyes, and noted with enthusiasm that the offering Kingsley had left by the bed was a cup of tea. “Thanks,” he murmured, sitting up enough on his side to reach for it. “Exceptional room service at this place, I see.”

 

Kingsley chuckled and headed back out the door. “Breakfast will be ready soon. There’s a robe hanging on the back of the door for you.”

 

He murmured acknowledgment, and brought the cup to his mouth. It was perfect -- just the way he liked it -- only a dash of milk, no sugar. A warmth suffused him at the idea that Kingsley, who’d never before had occasion to make tea for him, had nonetheless noticed the way he made it for himself, remembered, and replicated it.

 

After draining half the cup, he sat up in bed, yawned, stretched, and rubbed his eyes. He spied the robe hanging where Kingsley had told him it would be, crawled out of bed, and slid it on. Then he picked up the tea and wandered out into the rest of the flat.

 

He’d been here before, but he’d never had the opportunity to look around much. Normally when he visited, it was late at night, in the dark, for only an hour or two at most, during which he was rather distracted, and after which he almost immediately left. He’d never before stayed the night, never mind the morning -- or early afternoon, as he suspected it currently was. 

 

It was a nice flat though. Small, but tidy. Clean. Nothing like either of his homes -- his room at Hogwarts, rather spare and functional, or the house he had grown up in, which was derelict, crammed with several decades worth of clutter that he didn’t have the heart to throw away, as well as a lifetime of bad memories, which he longed to dispose of but so far hadn’t managed to do so. 

 

Kingsley’s flat did have one thing in common with his own homes, though, and that was the quantity of reading materials. He wandered over to a bookshelf, still sipping his tea, and tilted his head to read the titles. There was a lot of variety, belying Kingsley’s intellect and wide range of interests; histories, complicated works of magical theory, dueling techniques, and a fair amount of Muggle literature, as well. He knew that Kingsley was preparing for a likely future assignment that would compel him to go undercover amongst Muggles. They must be for research. He trailed his fingers along the spines, enjoying the familiarity of it all. Books had always been his most loyal friends, and they brought him comfort whenever he was in their presence.

 

Kingsley peeked his head out of the galley kitchen. “Come on, before it gets cold.”

 

He left the bookshelf, a little reluctantly, and followed him to the table. At the sight of it, his eyes widened. “When do you expect the other guests?” he asked. “Invited the entire English National Quidditch team, have you?”

 

“Sit down,” Kingsley said, looking a bit abashed. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I made a little of everything.”

 

“I can see that,” Severus said, still a little taken aback, but he did sit down. He was hungry -- starving, in fact -- but the slight awkwardness of the situation compelled him to only nibble on a piece of toast for the first five minutes.

 

“Come on now, eat something else,” Kingsley implored. “I promise I haven’t poisoned it.”

 

Severus sniffed. “Now that I can believe,” he said. “As I recall, your ineptitude with potions was legendary when we were at school.”

 

Kingsley rolled his eyes. “And how would you know that? You were three years ahead of me.”

 

“Oh, honestly,” he replied, and helped himself to some eggs and grilled tomatoes. The trading of barbs, as always, made him feel a little firmer on his feet. “Everyone knew. They say you were a good part of Slughorn’s decision to retire a few years later.”

 

Kingsley threw one hand up in the air. “Well, if you can’t be famous, you can at least be infamous, I suppose.” Then he stopped and grinned.  “As you well know.”

 

Severus tried, unsuccesfully, to tamp down his answering grin. He did so love it when someone could keep up with his level of insult.

 

They ate breakfast together in this way, conversing in this comfortable if unusual way -- Severus acerbic and misanthropic, Kingsley witty and self-effacing -- until at last Severus pushed away from the table, drained his second cup of tea, and said, “I should be getting back to the school.”

 

Kingsley looked disappointed. “Why? What is there to get back to?”

 

Severus rolled his eyes. “You’ve never taught, have you? The students come back next week, I have many things to prepare before their arrival …” Thinking on it now, his eyes glazed over a little at the idea of all the tasks he had left to complete. “And that’s not even taking into consideration the things I should be working on the for the Order … and the Dark Lord …” He shuddered a little.

 

He was startled out of his reverie by a hand on his arm. “Don’t go.”

 

Severus flushed. “Kingsley…I can’t spend a day doing absolutely nothing.”

 

The other man stood up and knelt by his chair. “Stay. Give yourself one day of rest. You can spare that much, can’t you?” He tugged on the arm he was grasping, then brought it up to his mouth and laid a kiss against it. “Plus, I’m sure there are many things we could do that wouldn’t qualify as nothing, at least in my humble estimation.” His mouth turned up into a lecherous grin, the lips brushing against Severus’ arm and sending shivers up and down his skin.

 

Severus closed his eyes. He couldn’t … it was far too indulgent … he couldn’t justify … but Kingsley was pressing more kisses up and down the tender flesh of the inside of his arm -- the bare one, thank Merlin -- and the thought of the Dark Mark burned onto the flesh of his other arm, hanging limp at his side, sent a spiral of black thoughts blooming in his mind like a drop of oil in water. And that, more than anything, set his mind to it. He opened his eyes, wide, and looked down at Kingsley’s crouched figure -- at his knees before him, but still so strong, a paradox. “Yes,” he murmured. “I’ll stay.” Kingsley grinned and stood, and led Severus back towards the bedroom, while anticipation and longing beat a steady rhythm against his ribcage.

 

\--

 

Some time later, his mind pleasantly blank and fuzzy, undisturbed by thoughts of teaching, Order responsibilties, or dark magic, Severus lay next to Kingsley in the bed. He listened to the other man’s breathing, even and regular, and paced his own to match, enjoying the sensation of synchonicity. When he closed his eyes, he could be nothing but a body, tangled up with another body; the world couldn’t penetrate here and disturb them. 

 

Then, from the other room, the Floo sputtered.

 

He opened his eyes, suddenly and jarringly himself again. He looked over at Kingsley, who had covered his face with one hand.

 

“I’ll go check that, shall I?” he said, sitting up. He pulled on his trousers, then a shirt, and wandered out into the sitting room.

 

In the bedroom, Severus pulled the sheet up to his chin and folded himself up beneath it, making himself as small as possible, as though whoever was on the other end of Kingsely’s fireplace might suddenly burst into the room and demand to know what he was doing here. And what was he doing here, anyway? Being a fool, that’s what he was doing. His cheeks flushed and he pressed his face into the pillow and lay there, listening to the hushed voices from the other room. He was still in this position when Kingsley returned.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, regretfully. “I’m needed at the Ministry. I’ll only be a few hours, though.”

 

Severus sat up, relieved that the Floo had been closed, but fighting disappointment. He ran a hand through his hair, hopelessly tangled from lolling about in bed. “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll go, too.”

 

Kingsley climbed onto the bed and pushed him back down onto it, an act which Severus found both infuriating and exciting. “Not so fast. You promised me a day. It’s only been twelve hours.” At Severus’ protestations, he pressed on, “I’ll only be a bit, and then I’ll come right back. I promise.” He kissed him then, deeply, so that Severus found that any good excuses he had to leave flew right out of his head. “Just … try to be still for a bit, all right?” He smiled, fondly, and kissed him again, before finally getting off the bed. Severus lay there, obedient and overwhelmed, and no one was more surprised about it than himself. Had anyone ever had an effect on him quite like Kingsley did? No, certainly not, and he didn’t think anyone else ever would.

 

He watched as Kingsley dressed himself properly and ran a hand over his stubble-covered chin before deeming it acceptable. Then they kissed goodbye, Kingsley leaning over him in the bed, pleading silently with his eyes for Severus to stay as he stood up. Severus stayed in the bed, listening to Kingsley put his boots and cloak on in the sitting room, and then the sputter of the Floo as he departed.

 

And then, just like that, he was alone in Kingsley Shacklebolt’s flat.

 

He rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. Perhaps he could sleep again while Kingsley was out, and then he’d be back before he knew it, and he would feel like he belonged here again. But try as he might, he couldn’t seem to nod off. After twenty unsatisfying minutes of trying, he sighed, flopped over onto his back, and stared at the ceiling and let his mind wander.

 

In a few days, he thought idly, it would be his birthday. Again. Thirty-six. The number hardly seemed real. He didn’t feel thirty-six. Where had the last fifteen years gone? A minute ago, he’d scarcely been in his twenties, the youngest faculty member on staff and just a few years older than his seventh years, trying desperately to exude maturity he still didn’t quite have, and locking himself in his office between classes so that he could privately have a nervous break down before he had to go out and do it all over again.

 

And at the same time, he felt so much older than thirty-six. Far too old. And when he thought of himself at twenty-one, or Merlin’s beard, eighteen, he felt as though he were watching the actions of an entirely different person. A very stupid person. A person who made nothing but terrible mistakes.

 

Almost without realizing it, he began to play a mental game that he had once indulged in frequently but had lost his taste for over time. It was simple enough: he picked a possible path his life could take and imagined how it might play out. When he was younger, he’d thought usually of the future; but as time went by and errors and regrets piled up, his attention turned more and more to the past.

 

Now he thought back to when he had first left school, just before he had officially joined the Dark Lord’s cause. Those crucial few weeks in the summer when his mother had died and he’d let himself plunge into entirely into nihilism, before being brought, gasping, back to his senses when he first heard Lily’s name fall from the lips of his vile master. If he only he hadn’t chosen so wrongly … perhaps if he’d taken that job in the little potions shop on Diagon Alley -- they’d been so eager to have him, what with his grades, but he’d turned them down, confident that he was made for bigger things. He should have taken it. Sold Spinners End, too, and gotten a flat somewhere more pleasant. Some place like this. Perhaps in time he would have made things up with Lily. Perhaps the Dark Lord would have never heard about the prophecy, if he’d chosen someone less competent to spy on Dumbledore and Trelawney’s meeting that day. So much could have been avoided.

 

He settled into the fantasy, becoming more entranced with it. He imagined that a few years out, perhaps then he’d have met Kingsley, in some other way. A chance meeting in the bookstore, perhaps. Who knew what they could have been, if everything had started there and then?

 

He frowned. He was beginning to reach the limits of his imagination now. Picturing anything grander than these simple successes always made his natural skepticism kick in. Disatisfied, he curled up in a ball on the bed, put his thumb between his teeth, and tried a different tack.

 

This one was a little more reasonable. If he and Kingsley both survived this war intact -- more or less -- if Kingsley, somehow, still wanted him then -- it seemed so unreal, but when he thought about the intensity of his eyes as he’d borne down on him in the bed a few hours ago, it seemed more real than it had a right to be. 

 

He’d quit his job, of course, at once -- like a snake shedding its old worn out skin. It would be so freeing. He had some money put away, and he could find some other work to do, if his reputation wasn’t too tattered. Where would he live? He could never bring Kingsley to Spinners End. Just like in that other reality, it would have to be sold. He could buy or rent another place or perhaps -- perhaps even move in here. There wasn’t room for a laboratory in this flat, but he could rent one in Diagon Alley, and work from there --

 

He sat up, his heart thumping. It felt so possible, so close, and he wanted it so, so, so badly, more than he’d ever wanted anything, he thought -- except for Lily, and even then ...

 

His gaze fell down then, to his arms, and he saw it.

 

The Dark Mark.

 

Nausea passed through him, almost choking him. All at once, his dreams shrivelled into the wretched, crookedly borne things they were. This was the problem with this game, why it was so bad for him. It was cruel, that’s what it was. Cruel because it was all impossible.

 

He lay back against the bed again, panting heavily. Impossible, yes. He could never have any of this. He didn’t deserve it, and he was not going to survive this war. He knew it, somehow, in his bones. He’d be dead by the end. Dead, dead, finally dead. The thought filled him with dread and a sick, morbid excitement. He didn’t want to die, and yet at the same time, the thought of never having any responsibilites again, of the end of this terrible farce -- dragging himself through each endless day, playing the game of masks and illusions, the knowledge each night that when he woke in the morning it would be more of the same -- what a relief it would be! The longing for it was so strong that it brought tears to his eyes, tears of frustration, and also regret. Because despite that longing, he still was filled with foolish hopes that it would some day get better. That there were things to live for besides duty and recompense. He was surrounded by those hopes, right now, and he couldn’t decided if he resented them or needed them, desperately, to keep going.

 

Raising one arm so that he could stare at the ugly mark that disfigured it, he contemplated his own terrible weakness. It had been weak to submit himself to this mark and everything it entailed; still weaker to come crawling back to Dumbledore in desperation; weak to have believed, foolishly, for all these years since that the Mark had truly been dormant, that he was safe. Weak to keep struggling, climbing, believing. Weak to not believe it was worth it, in his darkest moments.

 

He needed a cigarette.

 

Without further thought, he launched himself up from the bed, shrugged on the robe he’d discarded as Kingsley had led him to bed, and then rooted through his even earlier discarded trousers until he found the slightly crushed, half-empty packet of Lucky Strikes that he’d only purchased the day before. He’d smoked only occasionally, what they called “socially”, throughout his youth; then a little more heavily as the pressures of his job and the solidity of his regrets pressed down upon him and he needed something, just a little something, to take the edge off at the end of the day, and he couldn’t bring himself to resort to drink, and truly transform into his father. Now, though? Lately he’d been smoking like a chimney, nearly every chance he could get. It was one of the few things that brought him any peace of mind. (The other distraction had just left and wouldn’t be back for awhile.)

 

He couldn’t smoke here, though, not in Kingsley’s flat. It wouldn’t matter how many fresh air charms he cast, somehow the man would know. And it was rude. Disrespectful. 

 

At last he walked over to one of the windows, pushed it open with considerable effort, and leaned out. The cold January air hit him like a slap to the face, and made his entire body break out in goosebumps and his lungs sting. Pushing himself as far out as safely could, he lit a cigarette and took that first, wonderful, unbeatable drag. Merlin, it was magic.

 

He stared again at the Dark Mark on his outstretched arm, holding the cigarette aloft, only half-covered by the sleeve of his robe. How could Kingsley bear to even touch him, with this staring back at him? How could he stand to have Severus’ arms around him? He’d never understand.

 

When it had first come back, the pain singing and calling to him to his master’s side, and he’d followed it and, at last, hours later, returned back to Hogwarts, exhausted, terrified, and desperate for a way out, he’d stared at the familiar surroundings of the room he had inhabited for years with a stranger’s eyes. It looked to him like the cast off remnants of a dead man. 

 

He’d spent the entire next day locked up in there, after making his initial report to Albus. He’d told the old man that he needed some time to recover, but his method of rest was to sit at his desk all day and pour glass after glass of Firewhiskey down his throat. He almost never drank, but he had unopened bottles of the stuff laying around, because nobody ever knew what to give him for a Christmas at the faculty party. Now they would finally come in handy. By the time evening came around, he was nearly blind drunk, and the desperation bubbling up inside him had overflowed. He’d thought, then, wildly, of methods of escape. Surely there was some way to rid himself of this terrible mark on his arm and his soul, to severe the connection. Could he cut it out? He’d contemplated it seriously, even went so far to take out one of his knives for cutting potions ingredients and lay the cool blade against his flesh, but then he began to think about how deep the mark might go … an image came to him, of finding its black, twisted shape impressed even onto his bone, and he had dropped the knife to the ground, shuddering.

 

For a long time, he’d sat there, frozen, locked in some kind of paralysis, before it broke and he stood up, walked mechanically into his attached bathroom, and began to draw a bath. He’d sat on the edge of the tub while it filled, rubbing his thumb over the mark again and again without looking at it. When the water was nearly overflowing, he’d turned off the tabs, disrobed, and lowered himself in, first his lower extremities, then his shoulders, his neck, his head.

 

He’d stay submerged for awhile, counting the seconds without really realizing it, but try as he might -- and oh, he had tried -- he could not force his traitorous, clenched mouth to open, couldn’t let the water flood in and fill his lungs and stomach. As much as his mind did not want to go, his stupid body wouldn’t let go. At last, when his chest had felt like it was going to explode and he had begun to see stars behind his eyelids, he launched up out of the water, gasping and choking. Then he’d sat there, in the frigid water -- he hadn’t even thought to turn on the hot water, he hadn’t cared -- taking huge, sobbing gulps of air, and hating every lungful. 

 

Eventually, exhausted and defeated, he’d dragged himself from the bathtub, dripping everywhere, vomited what seemed like torrents of Firewhiskey into the toilet, stumbled back into his room and to his bed, and wrapped himself in a blanket and laid down, shivering and sick. There were other ways to do it. He thought about them all, but they all required so much effort … poison, but then he’d have to brew something. He could use the knife that was still laying on his floor, but what if he bollocksed it up and lived anyway? And of course, there was the noose, but that just made him think of his mother, and those were thoughts he just couldn’t face.

 

So instead, he had just laid there, until eventually unconsciousness had claimed him. The next day, he’d woken early as always, with an unbearable headache. He’d cleaned up his mess, drained the bathtub and took a shower, dressed in his normal clothing, and went to attend the first meeting of the new Order of the Phoenix, as though nothing had happened.

 

And it was there that he’d seen Kingsley -- not for the first time, exactly, he vaguely remembered him from school, and he’d certainly heard of him since then  -- but for the first time as an adult. The moment their eyes locked, it was as if a current passed between them, an electric shock that snapped him awake at once. At first he’d thought that only he had felt it, but Kingsley had kept staring right back at him, and after the meeting had concluded, he’d followed him to the door, reached out a hand, and introduced himself. The moment their hands had touched he had known that he wanted that touch to never end, and that Kinglsey, unbelievably, felt the same way.

 

After that, it had only been a matter of waiting for the inevitable to happen. 

 

An acrid smell hit him, and he came back to himself, the windowsill digging painfully into his stomach. He’d smoked the cigarette right down to the filter, and now it smelled disgusting. Cursing, he put it out, then vanished it, pulled his shivering body back inside the flat and shut the window. His fingers were numb with cold, as they’d been last night when Kingsley had finally come to him and rubbed them warm again. 

 

He smelled like cigarette smoke, he realized, and other unpleasant things from a day of laziness. He should take a shower. It would warm him up, as well. And Kingsley would be back soon, he thought.

 

After he got out, cleaned and refreshed, and redressed himself in his shirt and trousers, he wandered, barefoot, out into the sitting room again, and once more looked at the books that lined the bookcases. He stopped and pulled out one volume that he recognized: it was  _ Hard Times _ by Charles Dickens. He remembered, suddenly, his Nan -- on the Muggle side, his father’s mother, who’d lived with them for the first few years of his life -- reading aloud to him from Dickens’ novels when he was a child. She’d loved this one particularly, set as it was in a mill town much like their own, the name even similar -- Cokeworth versus Coketown. She’d been a tough, wiry thing, sharp as a whip with a mind that had been wasted on drudgery her whole life. She had the same hatchet nose he and his father shared but skin far darker -- her own mother, Severus’ great-grandmother, had been Romanichal, or Rumney as Nan had called it. She was the best of the whole lot, unafraid of her brute of a son, and strangely protective of his odd, unusual wife and her equally strange grandson. When she’d finally died -- of lung cancer, he was quite sure, and he supposed he ought to take that as a warning -- the last good thing in that house had died with her. 

 

He brought the book over to armchair and sat down in it, pulling his limbs up this chest. He opened to the first page. 

 

_ ‘Now, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to them. This is the principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which I bring up these children. Stick to Facts, sir!’ _

 

He was still still reading, an hour later, when Kingsley finally stepped back through the Floo. He looked quite tired, but his smile when he saw Severus sitting there, waiting for him, curled up on his armchair with one of his books in his hands, was unparalleled.

 

“You stayed,” he said, sounding a little surprised, despite himself.

 

Severus closed the book and put it aside. He stood up and went to greet his lover. “Of course I did,” he said.

 

“Good,” Kingsley said, and kissed him. “Now, let’s use the time we have left wisely, shall we? Until you have to go back to Hogwarts, I mean.”

 

_ Yes _ , Severus thought, as he leaned against Kingsley’s welcoming body.  _ And let there be more time left than I fear there will be, and let there be more days to come like this one. _

  
  



End file.
